I’ve discovered that what’s called poesis, said to be the making and shaping of poems — they must be shaped as well as made! — is not straightforward.
For one, you have to follow your feelings rather than steer them.
For another, it takes thought and craft. Line breakage oft leads but to wrack and rune — smite my nasty afflatus.
Such dawnings don’t rustle and bustle in a fake-headline sort of way; they hit home psychoactively, but in a delayed burn.
Cherubim in my belfry do not choir, if they ever did. My God-light is a smoke signal puffed from a campfire pissed on by poesis.
(c) 2020 JMN